


Why You Were There

by twofold



Category: Radiant Historia
Genre: Dreams, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 23:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15448584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofold/pseuds/twofold
Summary: Rosch still has dreams of that night.Post-game moments with a different take on canon scenes. Rosch/Stocke with implied Rosch/Stocke/Sonja.





	Why You Were There

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sen for beta-reading my work (and for responding to my messages at 2 and 3 in the morning).

The night was warm... this little campsite oasis was sheltered from the desert winds, and warmed by the heat of a dying flame. The trees swayed in the gentle breeze, and the stars threw a cool light on the cliffside. Rosch expected no less of Stocke; leave it to him to find a place like this, unrecognizable from the rest of the barren cliffs. Being prepared—or stubborn?—enough to make the best of any situation was part of what made him the most qualified for the job. And yet... as much as Rosch puzzled over what Special Intelligence had told him, he just couldn't figure this one out. Stocke, sent on a secret mission to assassinate Granorg royalty, and he ends up escorting his mark instead. It wasn't like him to falter on a mission. But here his voice, and the voice of the princess of Granorg, told no lies.

A few minutes later, and the princess had gotten up to leave. Rosch felt a little sick. But this had to be done.

"Stocke." Rosch moved from under the bushes he was concealed in, if only to let Stocke see him. Stocke jumped—maybe a little too quickly—and turned away from the sky, looking directly into Rosch's eyes—but not saying much. He looked... beautiful, lit by smoldering ashes? Well, maybe, but he mostly looked... tired, and nervous, and full of dread. Rosch felt the same. But...

 —

"What the hell do you think you're doing? You have a mission."

Stocke only looked down in response. Enough thoughts were going through Rosch's head to make him dizzy, but he needed to press on. "Are you really colluding with the enemy?"

"No." Blunt as usual.

"Then what is all this supposed to be?"

"Rosch..." Stocke met eyes with Rosch again. Whatever he was about to say, Rosch was sure it wouldn't explain a single thing—even if it could, he wouldn't listen. "Answer me, Stocke!"

"I need you to understand... this is for the good of Alistel—"

"Don't give me that! What's gotten into you? If you really think conspiring with the princess of the enemy nation is for the good of Alistel, you're out of your mind."

"Rosch, listen to me," Stocke pleaded. "Eruca has a plan to stop the desertification..." 

What the hell? Where was this coming from? Of course Granorg would have a plan to stop the desertification—it had only been waging a war over fertile land for almost half a century now. "Are you joking? Even if she could stop that, you have a job to do—for the sake of your country. Unless you've betrayed us. Stocke..."

Stocke remained silent.

"If you won't kill the princess... Stocke, are you listening?"

Rosch couldn't tell if what flared on Stocke's face for just an instant was irritation, or just exhaustion, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. "Don't do this."

That wasn't an answer, but it would have to do. Rosch raised his Gauntlet. "I have to. And if you won't let me, I won't go easy on you. One more time... will you kill her or not?"

"Damn it... I can't."

"You will," Rosch said. "Kill her, or die fighting me."

Stocke looked back down—nervousness turned to despair. What exactly was so important to him about her that he would be torn apart like this? "I don't want to do this, Rosch. Not right now. Please, just let us go."

"You've left me no other option. This isn't just about Alistel. Stocke, they're twisting my arm here... Sonja is in danger right now, too. Even if I wanted to abort my mission and let you off the hook... right now, you're putting the three of us at risk. I can't let you go. I have to fight you. If not for the country, then for..."

Stocke sighed and drew his sword before Rosch could finish his sentence. "I get it. I'm sorry."

Rosch, too, raised his lance. There was nothing he could do, but he couldn't help but hope that it might be different this time. "Then face me!"

 —

Damn fool. What good could have come from fighting Stocke? Nothing made sense now, and Rosch would have cursed his stars—that is, if he hadn't challenged Stocke in the first place. If there was another way, he would have killed to know about it before any of this happened. Maybe Stocke felt the same way. He certainly sounded like it, though Rosch had to strain himself to hear his voice over the dull roar eating away at his senses.

"Rosch... damn it all!"

"S... Stocke..."

"Rosch! Please, hang in there!"

"Stocke... it's pretty funny, huh? The one time... that we get to fight like this... in so long..."

Full of sympathy. Rosch was dying, and despite all the regrets of this night, he was full of sympathy. Stocke wasn't helping. After all, he was the furthest from being cool, collected Stocke that Rosch had ever seen... but right now, that wasn't important. If Rosch could do anything, he was going to make sure it would count—comforting a close friend was the least he could do. He just had to focus for a little longer...

"Don't talk like that! Rosch... I..." Stocke stopped speaking.

"Stocke... You're a stronger man... than I could ever be... If you really can stop the desertification... put an end to this war... Don't stop... until everyone is safe... Sonja and I... we'll be counting on you..."

Rosch's vision started to blur—he was no longer sure of what he was seeing—it looked like him, on the ground, with Stocke on his knees next to him. He felt a hand on his face... Stocke started to speak again—

 

* * *

  
  
Before he knew it, Rosch was sitting up in his bed, eyes wide open and coughing hard, choking on unsteady breaths. By the look of the streetlights pouring through the window, he would have guessed that it was just after 4 in the morning. He didn’t look at his clock, though, and instead laid back down and closed his eyes.

The same dream.

This was maybe the third time Rosch had this dream: of him and Stocke fighting, of Stocke killing him, and the both of them wishing things didn't have to be that way. It shouldn't have been a problem; Rosch, and hell, everyone had plenty of dreams of timelines gone astray—some bad, a lucky few good, but most of them just disorienting—but somehow, this one was different. Where the other dreams just felt like stories of what could have happened in the past year and a half, this one was too close to home, too close to a night that had actually taken place. It wasn't pleasant to think about what that meant—Rosch didn't like the fact that he could have been just a misstep away from having a nice slice through his ribcage that night—but what bothered him the most probably wasn't the combat.

The first time Rosch had this dream was the night it took place. It was October, but it was unseasonably warm, and the air was thick with smoke. Despite his good news of defecting from Alistel (if you could call it that), the tension between him and Stocke was palpable, and he had wondered if he had said something wrong—Stocke wasn't exactly thrilled to see him, and he could only fake a smile when Rosch joked that they might have fought. As for the other details? Stocke probably wasn't even listening—it was more than just a little hot out, so who could blame him?—although he might have perked up when Rosch mentioned that Raul and Sonja were alive and well. After that, it was just plans, tactics, and preparations. Nothing had gone wrong that night. So when Rosch woke up the next morning, he wondered if Stocke had the same dream. Or maybe Stocke had been the one to smell death on him, now...

Rosch knew he had the dream a second time too, though he couldn't remember exactly when. It might have been November, or December, before Hugo (damn him) marched on Celestia. This time, Rosch hadn't fought Stocke—instead, it was his subordinate Marco and the princess who struck him down before he could explain why he was there. None of his words could have comforted Stocke, and he didn't think he could come up with anything that would. Instead of trying, he spent his last breaths asking Stocke to look after Sonja. Stocke's breath hitched—Rosch felt tears fall on his face. They were still there when he woke up.

It was January now, in the year 152. Stillness fell like a thick blanket over the city, as time quietly passed between a harsh January night and a chilly January morning. 4 am—or, it should have been about 4:15 now. It was going to be a work day. What was an hour or two of sleep? Rosch figured he could start his day early, enjoy a walk in the snow with some coffee, and get a headstart on the admin work he was dying to put off—or putting off to die, whichever worked. So, up and out of bed...

 


End file.
